Mel did her usual show at six o'clock, and of course covered almost exclusively the news from L.A. and when she came off the air, the producer was waiting to confer with her.

“Mel.” He looked at her somberly and handed her another sheaf of papers. “I want you out there.” For a moment, she was stunned. “Go home, get your stuff, come back and do the eleven o'clock, and we'll run you out to the airport. They're going to hold a flight for you, and you can start reporting from out there first thing tomorrow morning. By then, God only knows what will have happened.” The man who had shot the President was already in custody, and lengthy profiles of his checkered past were on the air constantly, interspersed with interviews with major surgeons giving their opinions of the President's chances. “Can you do it?” They both knew it was a rhetorical question. She had no choice. This was what they paid her for, and the coverage of national emergencies was part of it. She mentally ran over the list of what she had to do. She knew from experience that Raquel would take care of the girls, and she would see them when she went home between shows to pack.

At home, she found the twins and Raquel in tears in front of the TV, and Jessica was the first to approach her. “What's going to happen, Mom?” Raquel loudly blew her nose.

“We don't know yet.” And then she told them the news. “I have to go to California tonight. Will you guys be okay?” She turned to Raquel, knowing her answer would be yes.

“Of course.” She almost looked insulted.

“I'll be back as soon as all of this is over.”

She kissed them all and left for the network to do the late news, and as soon as she came off the air, she left in the wake of two cops who had been waiting to escort her to their car downstairs. They all listened intently to the radio as they sped to the airport with the sirens shrieking. It was a favor the police occasionally did for the station. They made it to JFK by twelve fifteen and the plane took off ten minutes after she boarded. Several times the stewardesses came to give her bulletins transmitted by the pilots, as they got the news from towers and air controllers as they crossed the country. The President was still alive, but there was no way of telling for how long. It seemed an endless night as they flew to L.A. and Mel finally disembarked in Los Angeles feeling truly exhausted. She was met again by a police escort there, and she decided to go to Center City before going to her hotel and sleeping for a few hours. She would have to go to work at seven o'clock the next morning, and it was already four o'clock in the morning in L.A. But when she reached Center City, there was no further news, and she got to her hotel just before five A.M. She figured that she could sleep for an hour or so before reporting for work. She was just going to have to drink a lot of black coffee, and she requested a wake-up from the hotel operator so she wouldn't oversleep. They had booked her into a hotel where she had never stayed, but it was close to Center City. And suddenly she realized how strange it was that she was back in L.A. again so soon, and wondered if she would have time to see Peter. Maybe when it was all over. Unless, of course, the President died. She might have to fly back simultaneously with Air Force One to attend the funeral in Washington, in which case she would never see him. But she hoped for the President's sake that wouldn't happen. And she desperately wanted to see Peter in the next few days. She wondered if he'd known she was there.

She woke up instantly when the operator called, all her senses alert, although her limbs ached and she felt as though she hadn't slept at all. But she would have to operate on black coffee and nervous energy and stay on her feet somehow. She had done it before, and she knew she could do it this time. Dressing quickly in a dark gray dress, and high-heeled black shoes, she was out of the hotel and in the police car at six thirty and at the hospital ten minutes later, to get the latest details and go on the air. It was already almost ten o'clock in New York by then and the eastern portion of the country had been hungry for news for hours.

She saw the camera crew she had used before in the fray along with at least fifty other cameramen and two dozen reporters. They were camping out in the lobby and a hospital spokesman was giving them bulletins every half hour. And finally at eight o'clock, an hour after Mel went on the air, looking grave and impressive, the first bit of good news reached them. The President was conscious, and his spinal cord had been neither damaged nor severed. If he survived he would not be paralyzed, and there had been no brain damage from what they could tell so far. But he was still critically ill and hovering between life and death. His survival was not yet assured, and three hours later the First Lady joined them and spoke a few words to the nation. Mel was able to get three minutes of her time, and the poor woman looked grief-stricken and exhausted, but she stood speaking to Mel with dignity and a firm voice. One's heart went out to her as tears filled her eyes, but her voice never wavered. Mel let her speak, asked only a few questions, and assured her of the nation's prayers, and then miraculously was able to get a few moments later on with the President's surgeon. By six o'clock that night there was no additional news, and Mel was relieved by a local anchor, going on for the network. She was given five hours to go to her hotel and sleep, if she could. But by then she was so wound up, she couldn't sleep when she reached her room. She lay in the dark, thinking of a thousand things, and suddenly she reached for the phone, and dialed a local number.

Mrs. Hahn answered the phone, and without friendly preamble Mel asked for Peter, and he was on the line a moment later.

“Mel?”

“Hi. I don't even know if I make sense, I'm so cross-eyed, but I just wanted to call and tell you I was here.”

He smiled gently then. She sounded exhausted. “Remember me? I work at Center City too. Not to mention the fact that we do have a television set here. I saw you twice today, but you didn't see me. Are you holding up all right?”

“I'll do. I'm used to this. After a while, you just have to put your body on automatic pilot, and hope that you don't crash into a wall somewhere looking for a bathroom.”

“Where are you now?” She gave him the name of her hotel, and it struck him as remarkable that she was so near again. He had to admit that in spite of the horrendous circumstances, he liked it, although he wondered if he'd be able to see her. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Not right now. But if there is, I'll let you know.”

He felt like a complete ass asking her the next question, but he had to. “Is there any chance that … I can see you sometime? I mean other than across a crowded lobby full of reporters?”

“I don't know yet.” She was honest with him. “It depends on what happens.” And then she sighed. “What do you think will happen, Peter? What are his chances really?” She should have asked him before, but she was so tired she didn't think of it till just now.

“Fair. Depends on what kind of shape he's in. His heart's not involved or they would have called me in. I was in the operating room when they operated, just in case. But they didn't need me.” She hadn't known that from the reports, but she suspected that there was a lot of information held back. The only thing they knew everything about was the assailant, a twenty-three-year-old man who had spent the last five years in a mental hospital and had told his sister two months before that he was going to kill the President. No one took him seriously since he thought that his roommate at the hospital was God and the head nurse was Marilyn Monroe. No one even thought he knew who the President was, but he did. He knew well enough to almost kill him, and maybe succeed after all. “We'll know a lot more tomorrow, Mel.”

“If you get any inside leads, will you call me?”

“Sure. But why don't you get some sleep before you become the next patient?”

“I will, but I'm so damn keyed up I can't sleep.”

“Try. Just close your eyes and rest, don't think of sleeping.” His voice was soothing and she was glad she had called him. “Do you want a ride to the hospital tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” She laughed. “I have to be back at eleven o'clock tonight.”

“That's inhuman!” He was outraged.

“So is shooting the President.” They both agreed and she hung up, glad she had called. Melanie just hoped they could get together before she left L. A. It would kill her to have been there and to leave without even seeing him once, but they both knew it could happen. And as Mel rolled over on the bed in her hotel room, she prayed that it wouldn't.





CHAPTER 13

“You're in no condition to drive, Miss Adams.” At first she thought it was a cop, but as she squinted she saw a familiar face, and she smiled and leaned her head back against the seat. The window was rolled down all the way. She knew she had needed as much air as she could get so she wouldn't fall asleep at the wheel on the way home.